


Sherlock Drabbles

by Aki_Aiko



Series: Drabbles [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Angst, Apocalypse, ApocoLoctic, Beta!John, Buffy: The Vampire Slayer - Freeform, Catatonia, Character Death, Crossover, Dancing, Drug Use, Flowers in the Attic, Hunger Games Fusion, John is a Cat, Mental Illness, Merlock, Multi, Mutants, Omega!Sherlock, Omega!verse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Torture, Slavery, Vamp!John, Vamp!lock, cat!lock, deserted island, hints of dub-con/non-con, mutant AU, sort of, supernatural horror, wild!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-04-12 18:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 9,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4490799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aki_Aiko/pseuds/Aki_Aiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock drabbles and one-shots of various lengths and genres.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vamp!Lock

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock's a vampire and John's surprisingly okay with that.

Sherlock paused, blinked, blinked again, then said, "John."

His words were rather muffled by the bag of donated blood his teeth were sunk into, though. A couple of drops escaped and dripped onto the morgue floor but both men ignored it in favor of staring at each other.

Finally, John found his voice. "So...you're a-"

"Vampire." Sherlock drew in a long mouthful of blood, enough to deflate the bag, and tossed it carelessly onto the table. "Really, John, is it so much of a surprise?"

"Well, yes, actually. You can walk in the sun." John's brain decided to skip over the whole concept of reality and just embraced this new insanity.

"Yes."

"You have a pulse."

"Yes."

"For god's sake, Sherlock! You couldn't have told me?" He stopped, a horrible thought occurring to him. "It's how you survived the fall, isn't it?"

"I wanted to tell you."

"But you didn't." John moved forward to look at the bag Sherlock dropped. "Molly must be your...supplier."

Sherlock grinned at him. "Blood isn't a drug, John."

John suddenly giggled. "You're a vampire."

"Are you okay? I know this is rather hard to believe for such a dull mortal brain. Do you need a moment to process?"

"No, I don't need a bloody moment, you git. It's just...everything makes so much sense now. You don't eat and you keep severed heads in our refrigerator."

"I don't think vampirism necessarily ties into the preservation of body parts." Sherlock face changed subtly into an expression only John seemed to pick up on so easily. "Are you frightened of me now?"

John reached out and pressed a hand against his friend's arm. "Of course not. You still the same annoying, brilliant man I've known for years now. I don't see how this changes things. So long as you don't try to use me as a some kind of an unwilling blood donor, we're fine."

Sherlock smiled at him, one of those rare smiles that actually touched his eyes. They stared at each other a moment in a silence that should have been awkward but sat companionable between them instead. The moment was broken by Molly's entrance into the lab.

"Oh," she gasped, flinching to come across them so unexpectedly.

"Ah, Molly." Sherlock straightened to his full height, all uncertainty faded, and strode around John to take the files from Molly before she dropped them. "You didn't touch my experiment, did you?"

"Um, no." Her eyes darted from John to the crumpled, discarded bag. "I thought you'd left already."

"Obviously not. John!"

John snapped to attention at Sherlock's commanding bark. "Sherlock," he said, a wry grin forming on his lips. Some habits were hard to break.

"You should go home. I may be here all night."

"When's the last time you slept?" Even vampires had to sleep sometimes.

It was a bad sign when Sherlock had to stop and think about it. He tilted his head back and squinted at the ceiling before pronouncing, "I'm...not sure. Don't fuss."


	2. Acquisitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock disappears after escaping the hospital with a gunshot wound. John thinks he's dead, until he suddenly appears on TV one day, at Magnussen's side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hints of dub-con/non-con

The first time John sees him he's on the daily news. Not somewhere anyone else would notice him, not with the man at the podium droning on and on about his newest acquisition, a merger between two giants that no one thought would ever go through. No, he's behind Magnussen, to the left a bit, with his eyes glued to the phone in his hand. John drops his tea in shock.

Sherlock doesn't look well. He's too thin and his eyes are too shadowed. John can tell that much, even if the view of his friend isn't great.

"Please tell me you didn't know," he says to Mycroft once he's managed to reign in his shock-his relief-and pick up the phone.

"John," the other man sighs.

John's jaw clenches so hard his teeth grind painfully together. "I thought he was dead. Again!"

"I'm sorry. I'd hoped it wouldn't get this far."

"Is he okay?" Mycroft's silence is answer enough. John's hand tightens on the phone. "Get him back."

"John-"

"No. I don't care what the two of you have planned. Get him back to us." ‘To me’ is what he really means, but knows that, with Mycroft, it doesn’t need saying out loud.

"I promise I'm trying."

"That's not good enough." He hangs up the phone.

Upstairs, hidden on the top shelf of his and Mary's closet, is the gun he'd brought back from Afganistan. He'd put it away, for the baby's sake, but now he goes to it, an old familiar friend. If Mycroft doesn'tget Sherlock, John will.

+

Sherlock trails silently behind his boss, eyes still glued to his phone. Its different than he’s used to but is still just a phone and he’s taken to it like he does all things. An hour of tinkering unlocked all its hidden nooks and crannies, all the little tidbits that he’s not allowed to use. Or is he? Sherlock’s not quite sure anymore what exactly he should or shouldn’t be doing. Except now, this late at night, he knows he should be in bed trying to sleep.

A hand wavers into view, wraps around his phone, and pulls it gently from his hand.

“I apologize,” Magnussen says. “We should have been home hours ago.”

Sherlock looks away. “Yes.”

Magnussen’s fingers grip the back of his head, kneads into the thick curls there. He crowds into Sherlock’s space. His face is mere inches away. Sherlock doesn’t back down but the fleeting memory of a clammy touch on his hand makes him tremble.

“Well.” Magnussen gives his neck a final squeeze, then lets go and steps away. “Good night, Mr. Holmes.”

Once he’s gone from the room, Sherlock feels like he can breath properly again. He finds his room on the second floor and goes through the motions of bedtime, getting undressed, showering, changing into pajamas, then climbing into bed, only to stare at the ceiling, wide awake come dawn.

He has messages on his phone but only one makes him pause.

‘John wants to see you. Will you keep him waiting, too?’

Sherlock deletes it.

Magnussen changes the number by noon.


	3. Omega!verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's daughters show up at 221B. Omega!Sherlock. Beta!John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea behind this is Mycroft and Sherlock's parents raised them in a closed-off Alpha/Omega commune in France which strictly enforces the gender-typical rules. Mycroft (also an omega) escaped at 16 (Sherlock was 9) but had to leave Sherlock behind to do it. His escape set off a tighter watch on Sherlock, who was 20 and unhappily bonded with four kids (the two girls and twin boys) by the time Mycroft could get him out. Which meant he also had to leave children behind, though he tried to set up visitation rights afterwards, without success. So the girls showing up is quite a shock, especially to John, who knew nothing of their existence.
> 
> Their names: Saffron (20), Cardelia (18), Elfred “Freddy” (15), Dearborn "Derby" (15). Sherlock was bonded at 15 and started having kids at 16; the fourth pregnancy ended in a miscarriage and was the last.

The two girls, neither of which could have even hit twenty yet, both looked oddly familiar, the shorter of the two most. She had a glossy mane of dark hair and piercing blue eyes set in a thin angular face.

"Are you related to Sherlock?" John asked her.

The girls glanced at one another uneasily.

"...yes," drawled the near look-alike.

Just then, Sherlock appeared in the hallway leading to his room, wrapped only in his pajama bottoms and housecoat. He took only a moment, eyes scanning over the two girls, before saying," Does your father know you're here?"

"Sherlock." John rose half to his feet at how pale his friend had turned. Sherlock hadn't eaten in at least three days, that had to be catching up to him by now. At least he'd finally gotten some sleep.

"He doesn't know," said the other girl, who'd introduced herself as Cardelia. Her sister's name was Saffron, so neither of them exactly won out in the naming department.

Sherlock eyed them warily, then went to sit in his usual seat. His eyes stayed fixed on the two girls with a strange intensity. "What do you want?"

"They have a case," John said, but Saffron gave him a sharp look.

"Actually," she said, "we came to see you."

Sherlock frowned even harder. "Why? What do you want from me?" He snorted derisively. "Love? I have to warn you, I don't do feelings."

"We just wanted to meet our mother!" Cardelia burst out. "Is that so bad?"

Saffron put a hand on her arm, while John choked on his tea.

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

"It's just-you have two kids!"

"Four, actually." Saffron pulled large manila envelope and held it out two Sherlock. When he didn't reach out to take it, she handed it to John, instead, then turned back to Sherlock. "There are pictures in there of us, Elfred, and Derby, as well as contact information for me and Cardelia. The boys are still at home, so, you know..."

Sherlock looked away with a pained expression on his face. Saffron stood and motioned her sister to do the same.

“We’ll give you some time. Think it over. Maybe you’d like to be a part of our lives now that we’re grown.”

“Sherlock,” John prodded when the silence continued after the girls had gone. Sherlock’s hand were clawed into the sides of the chair. John reached out and touched him lightly on the knee. “Do you want to talk about it?”

What he really wanted was answers. He’d know that Sherlock was an omega, of course, how could he not? But he would never have guessed that he’d been bonded. And those girls spoke as if his alpha were still alive. John’s curiosity itched like a bad rash, but he couldn’t bring himself to pry into something so personal. At Sherlock’s continued silence, he set the envelope aside and went to make tea.

Behind him, he could hear the rustle of paper.

“It was necessary,” Sherlock said.


	4. Stranded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and his new wife Mary, along with familiar London faces, get stranded on a deserted island that turns out to be not so deserted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> would have Pairings: John/Mary, future Lestrade/Molly, Anderson/Donovan, possible John/Sherlock.
> 
> The cruise was a honeymoon cruise. John knows Lestrade and the others through Mike. Sherlock stuck on the island at age nine when the plane carrying he and his parents crashed into it. His dad died on impact, his mother a year later. He eventually deleted language as irrelevant. Is when John stumbles across him and has his own set up in the forest, which includes a self-made reed instrument in lieu of a violin.

The man staring at him from across the island was tall and dark-haired, tan from the sun and wearing clothes made from plant fibers. He stared at John for a long moment but disappeared before John took more than a few steps towards him.

Mary's hand landed softly on his shoulder. "What is it?" she asked. "What did you see?"

John stared at the spot where the man had been and shook his head. "Nothing. Must have been my imagination."

She led him back, his limp slowing them down, to where the others were gathered, those who had survived the capsizing of the boat. Lestrade, Molly, Mike, more people that John barely knew. He'd only met most of them through Mike, who he'd ran into on his trip back to London after getting discharged from the army. And Mary...Mary had no one but John.

He reached out to grasp her hand, the ring on his hand digging into her right ringless one. She gave him a small smile. Some honeymoon this turned out to be.

"It's not your fault," Mary said, as if reading his thoughts. "Besides, we're on a beach, yeah? We can have a swim while we wait."

Lestrade, standing beside them, clapped John on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it, mate. We'll start a fire, get a signal going. You two just relax."

John opened his mouth to protest, not wanting to feel useless, but Mary tugged at his hand and pulled him to a secluded spot where they were hidden by tall plant fronds behind a small jut of earth that hid them from the rest of the group.

"Come here, you." Mary drew him to her with a kiss.

They lay in the sand, exploring each others' bodies anew, until an unearthly shriek caused them to break apart.

"What the hell was that?" John stood and scanned the trees behind them. More of those shrieks sounded, causing goosebumps to break out along his skin. Mary pressed against him. He could feel her tremble at his back. "We need to go back. Now."

He turned to guide her back the way they came but paused halfway there. This far away, the sounds had turned faint, but he could swear he heard the beginnings of a melody amidst the chaos of noise. Some kind of song. Just John's mind playing tricks on him.

Back near the shore, a fire had been started. It was small but growing, as the group added more sticks and branches to it. It would be more visible at night, which wasn't far off, but maybe the smoke could alert some plane overhead in the daytime.

Parts of the boat were coming to shore with the tide. John waded out to find what could be useful-they'd need clean water if they were going to be here for too long. He could only hope that some coolers, or water bottles, some kind of sustenance, had survived. Mary waded out to him as he struggled.


	5. To the Victors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock, former victors of their respective Hunger Games, are roommates in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hunger Games fusion. The Hunger Games is world wide and in our timeline/universe. John, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson are all former Victors. John's injuries are from the Games and Sherlock is still a drug addict (enabled by his handlers).

Sherlock leaned on the railing, smoke trailing from his mouth and his posture slumped. His team had managed to get him cleaned up for the cameras tomorrow but there was no hiding the circles under his eyes or the way his body tilted from side to side, as if on a rocky boat lost at sea. John sighed and slipped up beside him.

"Hey." He lay a hand on the other man's arm. "Why don't you come inside? It's getting cold outside and you don't have your coat on."

Sherlock looked at him with glassy eyes. It'd been over twenty years since his time in the games but it had obviously left its own mark on him, one his handlers were all too happy to ignore. After all, they only needed him sober once a year.

“Come on.” John ushered Sherlock inside. While John went to make tea, Sherlock flopped down on the fancy couch and rolled over to face the back. John groaned as he sat in the nearby armchair with a groan. His shoulder was killing him. Sherlock might have been a slight man, but he was deceptively heavy.

The night was late and John’s eyes grew heavy with sleep. When he finally fell unconscious, he dreamt of sand and blood, of young bodies breaking and snapping-and the screams. The screams most of all.

He woke with a jerk, covered in sweat, to find Sherlock hovering over him, his face mere inches from John’s own. He jerked back with a gasp.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Sherlock hmm’d and ran an eye down his body. “You were having a nightmare.”

“Yes, well.”

“What was it about? No, let me guess. It wasn't about the games. You were twitching too much for that to be it. And the muttering...it was about your tour in Afghanistan. You were caught in the riots."

John swallowed. He didn't have to ask how Sherlock knew about Afghanistan. The Victors had been passing through there on world tours for years. Even Sherlock had been a few times. "You can tell the difference?"

"When you dream about the games, your movements are more abrupt. Wider. And you never talk."

Sherlock pulled away and turned towards the kitchen where his equipment was set up on the table. A flask, filled with a pale yellow liquid, was bubbling merrily away.

“Yoo-hoo.” Their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, poked her head in. She’d been in the games over 60 years ago as 16 year old girl. She was one of the few British girls to ever win. Now she ran the Victor House on Baker Street, for those who didn’t want to cooped up in the square.

If John looked outside now, he knew what he’d see-fans lingering by the door, hoping to get a glimpse of a Victor, no matter how faded their glory.

“I’ve brought tea, dears,” Mrs. Hudson continued. She carried a tray inside and set it on the table by John’s chair. “Just the once.”


	6. The Cemetary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock really did die on St. Bart's rooftop, but John is determined to bring him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's inspired by both Stephen King's Pet Semetary and a Buffy: The Vampire Slayer episode (the one directly after The Body).
> 
> Warning: Character death.

At the funeral, all John could think of was the look of intensity in Sherlock’s eyes. They were closed now, as they would forever be, and the knowledge left John with a big, gaping wound in his heart. He had to fight back the urge to stride up front and slam the lid of the coffin closed, to block out the sight of his friend lying there so stiff and cold.

But there was also a tiny spark of hope in his heart, fueled by the nonsense of fairy tales. As Mycroft got up to speak, John continued looking down at his clenched hands, plans already beginning to form in his mind. He didn’t notice the considering look Mycroft gave him, brief but knowing.

+

John bought the equipment he needed with cash and rented a car for the weekend. He would only need a night, two at the most, to see if the magic Sherlock believed in so fiercely was true.

He was sitting in Sherlock’s chair when he heard Mrs. Hudson’s worried murmur near the door to their flat, followed by Mycroft’s more measured tone. He drew himself out of his grieving stupor and turned to face the man as the soldier he once was. Straight-back and level-headed.

“I believe you know why I’m here,” Mycroft said, tapping his umbrella on the floor in a nervous tic.

“No. Why are you here?” When in doubt, lie. And hope.

Mycroft let out a breath of air. “He told you about Redbeard, I suppose. Did he tell you what happened afterward? Of how the dog smelled of decay. He couldn’t even walk properly. Ran into walls and the like. Daddy eventually put him down. Again. A mercy killing, John. Sherlock was inconsolable but to let such a thing live...”

John’s hand clenched and unclenched reflexively. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, John.” He looked down at the floor, rapped his umbrella once more, and turned to leave but paused on the threshold. “Do reconsider, John. The results could be…disastrous.”

Then he was gone and John was left to his grief. The thought was there, to just stop now and let Sherlock lie, but he couldn’t. Because the results could also be wonderful.

+

Sherlock had been buried with all the other Holmeses, though John knew he would have been furious about it. London was his home, where he would’ve wanted to be.  
Thankfully, this meant the area didn’t have a lot of traffic and John only had to stop once or twice to hide when a car drove by, none of them ever stopping or slowing down enough to alarm him.

It’s been three days since the funeral, so John knew the inside of Sherlock’s coffin would be less than ideal. The timing was off, so he just had to close his eyes and push through his revulsion. He wrestled Sherlock up, wrapped him in a heavy blanket, and lowered him into the back seat of his car. The man was too tall to put in the boot, which would have been safest, but there was no help for it now.

+

When all was done, Sherlock once more underground, John had only to wait. It was a day later and after midnight when he first saw the shadow making its way along the path John had taken not too long ago. John sat back in his armchair, listening intently. He could hear footsteps approaching, but they were slow and dragging, and once they were nearer the door, he could also hear a deep, rasping breath that came in uneven pants...like a dog. 

John stood and reached out to open the door.


	7. BBC Sherlock/Buffy: The Vampire Slayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vamp!Lock. Set in S2 of Buffy, vampires Sherlock and John arrive in Sunnydale, intent on taking down a slayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't seen season 2 of Buffy in a while but I loved the Spike/Dru interactions. John and Sherlock have slotted into their roles.

Giles lay the thick book opened flat on the table. The right page showed a black and white posed photograph of two men, one tall and dark-haired, the other with lighter hair and a grumpy expression on his face.

“Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,” Giles said. “They’ve been together since the latter half of the 19th century.” He paused and glanced over at the slayer next to him. “Angelus turned Sherlock but not before driving him insane. Sherlock turned his friend John soon after.”

Buffy stared at the taller man’s pale, piercing eyes. Even through the photograph, they were...unsettling, like he knew more than the whole world did. The smirk dancing at the corner of his mouth didn’t help ease the feel of crazy he had about him, either. She would have said that the other man, this John, was the sane one of the two but as Giles continued to talk she realized-Sherlock might have been insane, but John had the higher body count.

“So what do we do?” Willow asked.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Giles answered. “Not until they make a move.”

“Well, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine,” Xander chirped. “I say we go in there with Mr. Pointy and kick some vampire butt. Right, Buff?”

Giles gave him a sharp look. “No! None of you are to go anywhere near them. They’re far too dangerous.”

“I’ll talk to Angel,” Buffy said. “Maybe he can do something about this.”

“Like what?” Willow turned the book towards her to stare at the picture. “I’m sorry, Buffy, but these guys sound out of our league. Are you sure Angel can handle them?”

“No. I’m not.” Buffy stalked away from the table and out of the library door, stride never faltering, though she kept a stake at the ready, wary of what could be sent in the daylight.

+

In the half buried church, John watched as his companion threw himself onto the floor and huffed like a child.

“Bored! Why isn’t there anything to do in this town? It’s on a hellmouth, for god’s sake.”

“The sun’s still out,” John said. “I’m sure it’ll pick up. Maybe a good murder or two.”

Sherlock sat up, eyes suddenly gleaming. “Ohhh, yes, John. That would be nice.” He moved closer, scuttling himself forward on his hands and knees to lay his chin on the other man’s bent knee. “We can have Slayer blood for desert. I bet she’s AB negative, too.”

John chuckled and set aside his paper so that he could ruffle Sherlock’s dark, curly hair. The candlelight picked up on its subtle red highlight and left a burnt glow behind.

“You’ll be able to bring her blood home in a bucket,” he whispered fiercely, hit by a wave of affection.

Sherlock grinned up at him. “For science, John.”

John frowned. Sherlock rarely fed, in spite of the constant hunger he must feel, but instead preferred to play with his food or stick it under a microscope for testing.


	8. The Silent Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year and a half ago, Sherlock was kidnapped by criminals he'd been chasing and tortured. He's been catatonic ever since. Hoping to keep him in London (the place Sherlock loves most) and out of a mental hospital (which Sherlock would have hated had he been more aware), Mycroft sets him up at 221B Baker Street with a nurse, but none have been a good fit...until he hires newly discharged John Watson.
> 
> Lestrade visits weekly and reads off old cases to Sherlock, hoping to connect with him somehow. And not to leave him alone, without a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: catatonia related to past torture (the torture not directly mentioned in story)

Lestrade took the stairs up to 221B slowly. It should have been easier, after a year of this, but he felt the same sense of dread he always did. Inside, Sherlock lay on the sofa like he always did, but someone new bustled about the kitchen.

“Hi,” the man said with a smile. “You must be the DI. Would you like some tea?”

Lestrade shifted the folder under his arm and stared. “Um. Yeah, that’s be good…”

“John Watson. Mycroft Holmes hired me to help out.”

“Right. I’ll just be over there, then.”

He set the folder on the pages, then reached out to lift a limp Sherlock upwards so that he could sit next the man. Sherlock sat quietly and stared at the coffee table, as if he actually saw the world around him. From his spot beside him, Lestrade could pretend everything was normal. He couldn’t even see the scar from this angle.

Lestrade cleared his throat. “All right, then.” He opened the folder and started setting out the papers inside. “We’ve got a nice murder here, took place not too far from your old flat. The victim’s 20 year old Alice Scott, university student, had a boyfriend with a solid alibi. No leads so far. Got anything in that big brain of yours?”

John Watson limped into the living room, set out tea for three, and settled into the chair by the sofa with a sigh. He frowned at the photos of Miss Scott’s bloody corpse. “Should he be looking at those?”

“The doctors think he might respond to things that interested him before. His nurse used to play classical CDs for him, but, well…” Lestrade shrugged.

John glanced at the violin collecting dust in the corner, then back at Sherlock, who stared back at him blankly. When John handed him the cup from the table, he brought it to his lips and sipped absently. After a few moments, his hand lowered and John took the cup from its limp grip.

This should have been progress. If life were fair, Sherlock would blink like a normal person, shake this off, and started demanding cases and body parts to bring home. Unfortunately, Sherlock’s automated responses hadn’t changed since he woke up in the hospital. Sometimes, he even wandered off on his own, no rhyme or reason to it.

Lestrade sighed and went back to the cold case he’d hoped would catch his friend’s attention. There was nothing, though. Except…as he gathered up his papers an hour later, closing out his weekly one hour visit, he saw something new.

Sherlock’s eyes were watching John’s every move, tracking them with an intensity, a spark, that had been missing for far too long. It faded when John touched him, lifted him up from the couch with a hand tucked under his elbow. He had a bedtime now, one that he adheres strictly to (though whether he actually sleeps then is debatable).

Lestrade turned to the door as John lead him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I've moved all my Sherlock drabbles from 500 words. I'll be adding more Sherlock bits here as they come. I like and write most angst, Sherlock whump, and fusions/crossovers, so there'll be plenty of those.


	9. Merlock!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are both mermen. John meets Sherlock while looking an egg (his child) that's been swept away by a recent storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are two different types of merpeople. John's live in family units (which live in a larger clan set-up) deeper undersea, in thick vegetation. Sherlock's are solitary, are built longer and leaner, with a sonic blast for a weapon unlike John's thicker tail, which acts as a battering ram. 
> 
> There's a scene in my head where John's appalled that someone would just randomly impregnate a hatch of abandoned eggs and Sherlock's like, 'eh', 'cause that's how his people procreate. Yes, I've done actual world-building for something that may never get beyond this. Mycroft's even swimming around somewhere nearby with an unhealthy (for his people) need to watch over Sherlock. Oh, and Sherlock's tail turns into legs above water but John's doesn't. John also can't breathe out of water. Then the baby hatches and it kind of turns into a merman kidfic. Weird.

When the waters finally stopped swirling, Sherlock darted from his cave and headed off eagerly to the field in the distance. He had to check on the school of fish he’d been observing for the past month.

Just when he’d reached the edge of the field, a thick brown tail lashed out of the fronds and smacked into him. Sherlock took only a moment, stunned, before he turned to where the tail was rising for another strike. He opened his mouth and let out a sonic blast, then another immediately after. The sound waves moved through the water, taking out anything whatever it passed. Sherlock stopped and waited.

A merman floated up out of the fronds. He’d been knocked unconscious by Sherlock’s defensive call, so Sherlock hooked an arm around his and began to tow him back home.

The inside of Sherlock’s cave was light by phosphorescent fungus which lined the walls and climbed up out of the water. This newcomer’s skin was tan and his short hair a dark blond. The scales of his brown tail were spotted darker with mud-colored spots that would provide great camouflage from sight-based predators nearer the surface. 

The man’s eyes fluttered, the gills on his neck flexing, as he slowly woke. Sherlock was tempted to haul him above water to the rocky shelf above, but the man’s kind couldn’t breathe out of water. They’d have to use the muddy universal language instead of the more delicate vocal sounds Sherlock liked best. How dull.

When the strange man-late thirties, from the deeper reefs, scarred from a shark attack-jerked awake, Sherlock spoke before he could wind his tail up for another attack, making sure to add the appropriate gestures as he did.

“You really shouldn’t go around hitting random strangers. I’m told that’s an inappropriate...something. Or other.”

The man blinked at him. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people, either.”

“I wasn’t sneaking! Besides, you’re in my territory. I’m told that’s also an inappropriate something. Or-“

“Other, yes, I get that. Is territory really that important to your people?”

Sherlock shrugged. “So I’m told. What were you looking for?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Your kind typically keep to the darker reaches and stick together in family units. You wouldn’t be so far from your people unless you were looking for something. Perhaps your food supply was contaminated by the recent storm or even swept away. So. What were you looking for?”

“Wow!” The man was looking at him strangely, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide.

“Er...” Sherlock found himself staring. “That’s not what others usually say.”

“Then they’re idiots. I’m John, by the way.” John swam closer with a hand outstretched but paused when Sherlock skittered away from him. “Maybe you can help me.”

“Most likely. I repeat-what are you looking for?”

“An egg. It was the only one to survive this long. I think the storm carried it this way and it’s most likely in your area.”

“You’re looking for a child?” Sherlock’s tail twitched. He’d never seen a youngling before.


	10. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannah Holmes finds out the horrible truth about her mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The truth: 15 years ago, a crazed female fan kidnapped Sherlock and held him captive for 5 months. Kind of like Misery but with less hobbling and more drugs and sexual abuse. She's pregnant by the time he's rescued. She goes to jail but Sherlock wants to keep the baby, who he names Hannah. I'm interested in a kidfic in which Sherlock isn't a great father but has friends and Mycroft to help him through the rough patches, such as when black moods hit or his everyday lack of empathy towards others.
> 
> Mycroft would have kept the mother locked away forever, but his death means that influence is gone and she's paroled when Hannah is 15. The others have gathered to tell the tell her what happened, because there's a strong chance the woman will try to make contact.

Hanna paused at the door to 221B. She could hear voices speaking softly, Uncle Greg, Aunt Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. The last time there’d been such a quiet gathering of people, her Uncle Mike had died and her father had spent almost a month on the couch.

He was the first thing her eyes fell on when she stepped inside, curled into a ball with his back to the room. John sat next to him on the arm of the couch, looking as if he wanted to murder someone. Hopefully, not Hannah.

Sherlock’s head popped up and he glared at her balefully. “What are you doing here?”

“School’s over, Daddy. It was time to come home.” She looked to John for help. “What’s going on?”

She had no idea what she could’ve done to cause her father to fall into such a black mood but, hey, it was only Monday. Early days, yet.

John’s eyes softened as Sherlock flopped back down and turned away. “Have a seat, love. We need to talk.”

“Did somebody die?” Might as well ask up front.

Sherlock’s head popped back up. “She doesn’t need to know.”

John sighed. “We’ve talked about this, Sherlock. Everyone agrees-“

“I am not everyone!” Sherlock surged off the couch and loomed over the others. He faltered, though, when he looked at Hannah quivering in her seat. His face turned strange, then he fled from the room.

“I’ll go.” Greg quickly stood and followed after.

“Am I in trouble?” Hannah asked, looking between John and Molly.


	11. Supercat!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is a cat...or is he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: character death (sort of), implied drug use, abrupt ending

When Sherlock wakes up in a puddle of his own vomit, it’s in his flat, staring at him. With disapproval, no less. He can see it in it’s overly large blue eyes. When he levers himself off the floor and stumbles to the bathroom, the cat pads after him.

“What?” Sherlock barks to it, craning his neck down to look at the sturdy brown fluffball beside him. It meows back up at him. “Oh, piss off.”

That said, Sherlock decides the floor of his bedroom, the space between bed and wall, is a good spot to sleep and takes less steps to get to, so simply lies face-down there. The cat hops up onto his back and purrs along with his snores.

In his sleep, Sherlock smiles.

+

He wakes up to a garbage truck rumbling by, not on the street but right next to his head. Something sharp pokes him in the side.

“Whazzit? Geroff.” He lurches upwards and opens bleary eyes to see Mycroft standing in the door with his umbrella out, sneering at him. “Oh. It’s you.”

The garbage truck gets louder.

“Yes, it’s me,” Mycroft says. “None of us have seen or heard from you in two months. Mummy worries, you know.” He glances down, sneer increasing. “Really, Sherlock. Since when have you needed a bodyguard?”

The cat sits in front of Sherlock, body drawn tight, its ears flat against its head, and growls. It’s like an early Christmas gift. Sherlock scoops it up with one hand and cradles it against his chest, where it promptly begins to purr.

“Don’t worry about him, John,” Sherlock says. “He probably just craving a bit of cake right now.”

“You’ve named that-that thing John.”

“Why not? It’s a common enough name and short. Would you prefer he go by Sir Fluffy McPuddlepants instead?” 

Mycroft pauses, then takes a breath to say, “How is that any better?”

Sherlock glances up harshly and frowns at his brother. “What are you doing here, anyway? Don’t you have a government to overthrow?”

“I told you. Mummy’s been worried.”

Sherlock holds John out towards Mycroft. The cat, bless him, starts hissing.

“Don’t be juvenile, Sherlock!” Mycroft takes a moment to compose himself. “I’ve had my assistant stock your pantry while I’m here, lord knows when you’ve last eaten. And clean up your flat. It’s revolting.”

He turns sharply on his heel and disappears from the door to Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock sits John back on the floor. He’s hungry, now that the high has worn off.

“Come along, John. I’m sure the queen’s left something behind you can eat.”

+

Sherlock is lying on the sofa, weeks after his brother’s last visit, when a sound outside his door captures his very fleeting attention. The sound of someone’s footsteps, male, approximately two hundred pounds, stops at his door. Nothings happens, the door knob doesn’t rattle, and he appears to just be standing there.

Only a few seconds later, Sherlock’s mind flitters away from the man at his door and burrows back into his mind palace. It’s lovely in there, with an orchestra playing and a dead body to dissect. 

John jumps on his chest and settles in with more loud purring.

Sherlock tsks. “Do you know how loud you do that?”

John opens his eyes and looks at him-then the door swings inwards and both of their attention is drawn to the large man hulking in the doorway. Sherlock sets John on the floor and stands. Beside him, John fur bristles out as the man enters the flat.

“You’re looking for drugs,” Sherlock says after flitting his eyes over the intruder, brain in deduction mode. “Ah. You were at Merlot’s place when the deal was made and assume I keep a stash here, instead of somewhere the likes of you can’t-“ 

The man jumps across the room and onto Sherlock. As they grapple on the floor together, John howls in a rage nearby. Sherlock almost has the upperhand in the fight when the man twists them suddenly, grabs Sherlock by the head, and slams him sideways against the hard wood of his couch’s armrest. Sherlock reels, his vision spotting, and tries to remain conscious. The large hands around his neck don’t help.

There’s a yowl and a yell and suddenly the hands are gone from Sherlock’s throat. He’s dizzy and can feel blood running down his neck but still manages to grab hold a cushion and haul himself to his feet. His assailant his careening around the room with a very angry cat attached to his head. Sherlock chuckles, then wavers as his vision doubles. Before his legs can give out, he launches himself forward, back into the fray.

Where he gets knocked to the floor almost immediately by a meaty, flailing hand.

“John,” he groans. He can’t lever himself off the floor this time.

The cat is hisses and spits but is cut off suddenly with the thump of a small body meeting hard wood.

“John!”

Footsteps hurry away and fade as Sherlock’s vision begins to flicker in and out. Loud purring, this time sounding like a rusting chainsaw, begins to near his fallen body just before the world goes dark.

+

When he wakes up, it’s to white walls and the steady beating of a heart monitor beside him. 

“Don’t speak,” Mycroft warns. “You’ll only further aggravate your injury.”

“John,” Sherlock rasps out. His throat burns at the words.

Mycroft sighs but says, “I’m sorry, Sherlock. Your cat suffered from internal injuries and had to be...put down.”

Sherlock closes his eyes. Those aren’t tears welling up. And if they are, it’s because his head hurts, and his neck, and his heart. Mycroft hand closes over his own.

“I’m sorry. I know you were attached to him.”

“Just a cat.” John wasn’t Redbeard. He’d just been a stupid cat.

“Yes, of course.” Mycroft’s hand slip away as he settles back in his seat. He doesn’t mention the fact that his brother is crying.

+

When John Watson walks into Bart’s, Sherlock’s eyes roam over his body and he asks, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John smiles. He’d had a dream, once, about a man...


	12. Recent Past Sherlock/Moriarty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's finally managed to leave his abusive husband but staying free is hard when your ex is a criminal mastermind bent on getting you back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a world famous violinist. He and Moriarty met in university. Moriarty helped further Sherlock's descent into drugs and has consistently used emotional manipulation and actual blackmail to keep them tied together. They're married but Sherlock's finally managed to leave and stay gone, much to Mycroft's great relief. He's even started helping the police with cases.
> 
> Sherlock and John first meet when Sherlock comes to the clinic under an assumed name where John works for help with wounds on his back that he can't reach and have become infected. A few days later, John takes a date to listen to live classical music (he got gifted free tickets) and finds that Sherlock is one of the key performers, playing a violin solo. John meets him afterwards, they go out for lunch and strike up a friendship. Which is when Moriarty and Sherlock's divorce begins to be featured on the news, as well as the criminal investigation against Moriarty.
> 
> Phew, yeah, that's a long one.

Sherlock and Moriarty squared off on the sidewalk with John hovering nervously at Sherlock’s elbow. Moriarty’s eyes flashed between Sherlock’s own.

“Oh, don’t think I won’t post those pictures across the internet,” he snarled. He glanced over at John. “Have you seen them, Dr. Watson? They’re simply _delicious_.”

John snarled. He had a strong urge to punch the man in his smug, manic face.

“What do you want, Jim?” Sherlock snapped.

“You know what I want.”

Sherlock sighed, then took one step, two, walking as if in a dream to where Moriarty waited. A black car suddenly pulled up next to them and a well-suited man with an umbrella stepped out.

“Step away from my brother, James.” Mycroft quickly looked Sherlock over. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, as he turned directly to Moriarty without even asking Sherlock if he was okay. “You will leave now. No questions, no threats. No _insinuations_ about Sherlock’s character. Go.”

Moriarty sneered. “Make me.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, probably to summon backup, but Sherlock finally moved. Closer to Moriarty. Both Mycroft and John reached out to pull him out of harm’s way, but he stayed out of Moriarty’s reach, just close enough to hold out his hand, palm down.

Bewildered, Moriarty held out his hand. A simple gold ring dropped onto his palm and he squeezed it tightly with a fist. “Fine,” he spat. “Fine. Just know, that if you do this, then I will burn the heart out of you. _Burn it_.”

Sherlock’s eyes went dead. “I’ve been reliably informed that you already have.”

John couldn’t stand to see Sherlock stand so close to Moriarty any long. He lunged forward and pulled him back. “C’mon. Let’s go, Sherlock. He’s not worth your time.”

“No,” Sherlock answered absently. “He’s not.”

He and Mycroft managed to sandwich Sherlock between them and get him up the stairs to 221B without giving Moriarty even one more glance. Once everyone was situated on their respective chairs, with tea and scones at hand, Mycroft turned to Sherlock and said, “He will be watched closely. Are you sure you wish to remain here? I can find you a safe house.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Mrs. Hudson would be devastated if I left.”

“And me.” John smiled at Sherlock’s surprised look. “I’d miss you, too, you know.”

That’s when the sitting room exploded. Moriarty watched the fireworks from his vantage point down the street. When the sirens began to get close, he turned and walked away, whistling brightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, everyone's safe, if a bit battered!


	13. Sherlock and Mycroft are Flowers in the Attic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft are flowers in the attic (without the incest).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on VC Andrews's book Flowers in the Attic

Mycroft waits until it’s after midnight before he grabs Sherlock’s hand and leads him down the stairs. The place hasn’t changed in the five years since they’d arrived. The only thing that has is Mycroft-even Sherlock hasn’t changed much from a skinny five year old to the slightly taller, too skinny ten year old he is now. 

“Is it an adventure?” Sherlock whispers as they creep down the hall. His latest obsession has been pirates. Mummy’s made sure to bring him tons of construction paper, glue, and anything he’d need to make boats, pirate flags, fake swords, and treasure chests galore. Skull Island is practically alive in the attic above their room.

“Yes,” Mycroft tells his little brother now. “And you must be very quiet, else the whole crew will be lost.”

Sherlock nods his serious little face and follows him to the stairs which lead to the rest of the house. Mycroft tries to ignore how slow Sherlock moves, the rasps of his lungs as he breathes. Maybe when they get out, he can take Sherlock to the doctor. He’s been sick for months now, even had the flu for ages. The medical books seems to say that it’s not normal. That it could be something worse than the flu.

They don’t pass anyone on their way to the front door, which is both creepy and a relief. In fact, it’s far too quiet for Mycroft’s tastes. Almost as if the staff had been sent on holiday.

The outside world has turned to spring, full of green grass, rain heavy clouds, and a smattering of newly bloomed flowers sprinkled across the expansive lawn. Sherlock takes it all in with wide eyes and doesn’t say a word. The last time Mycroft had tried to take him out onto the roof, it had been night (of course) and he’d screamed and kicked so hard that Mycroft gave in and let him race back upstairs to the safety of their shared lab (this was before the pirate phase kicked in).

Now, he clings to Mycroft’s hand as they make their way to where the driveway winds down a path which takes them to a small road that Mycroft vaguely remembers bringing them there. In the distance, two lights begin to get nearer. Holding his breath and hoping no one from the house sees, Mycroft flash a torch at the coming vehicle. Beside him, Sherlock flashes his own wildly, making patterns dance on the gravel in front of them.

The lady who stops seems charmed by Sherlock and lets him play with the radio and push random buttons without complaint. Mycroft, while trying to corall Sherlock into good behavior, only glances back at the house once before it disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The old woman who picks them up is Mrs. Hudson.


	14. Splash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange man shows up at the beach where John's a lifeguard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Merlock!
> 
> So I've been swimming lately and being in the water made me remember my love for the movie Splash. After watching the movie when I was little, whenever I went swimming I would pretend I was a mermaid. I was bitterly disappointed that I couldn't breathe underwater.

When John first heard the sharps gasps of shocks, he quickly scanned the water for signs of a struggle, of a swimmer too far out to sea. So far, in his three months as a lifeguard, he’d only had to herd people to safety, who had headed in that direction before either the tide swept them further away or the waves pulled them under. He stood for a moment, still scanning the area with one hand raised to shade his eyes from the sun’s rays, when a raised murmuring of voices caused him to turn. A clump of people had gathered down the shore. 

A tall man with a mop of dark hair stood tall among them. He had a pasty complexion and walked unsteadily, like a newborn foal.

John jogged over and pushed his way through the crowd, which only parted voluntarily when he pulled out the ‘I’m a doctor’ card. The man, who’d been looking at his audience with visible disdain, ran his icy eyes over John's face as if cataloging his very existence into tidy little mental compartments in his brain.

“Sir? Are you alright?” he asked.

The man blinked at him, then opened his mouth. What came out was a garbled chirping, some kind of mix between dolphin speak and whale song.

“Right.” John took the guy by the elbow (he did that weird blink thing again) and steered him away from the crowd.


	15. apocoLocktic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the world ended, our group live together, but a stranger comes to town and threatens their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and that stranger is Mary, who's come to wipe out the competition. Maybe working for Moriarty? The group consists of Molly, Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and Mycroft.

Molly woke before the others, as she always did, and carefully extracted herself from the tangle of bodies lying huddled together on the floor, all covered with one long, heavy blanket that John had whipped off the bed upstairs. Even Sherlock kept a regular sleep schedule, now that the world had ended. 

In the quiet semi-darkness, she padded across the room in stockinged feet to the window by the house’s front door and drew back the curtain to peer out at the enroaching dawn. The streets were a ghost town, not a soul left to wander. Enough time had passed that she was beginning to forget why the world had seemed so scary then.

“What do you see?” she asked Sherlock, who had sidled up behind her as if she wouldn’t notice him nearing.

Sherlock grimaced. “The same as any other man, I suppose.”

Molly nodded and looked back out the window. The wind had picked up and was blowing debris across the front yard. “Not much of the world left to deduce, anyway.”

He groaned and leaned his head back, baring the long column of his throat. “What I wouldn’t do for a good murder.”

“I think we’ve had enough of that, don’t you?” She turned to give him an exasperated smile but froze when she looked at him. “Sherlock...”

A tiny red dot jittered around the front of his shirt and stilled over his heart.


	16. Cattle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the world goes to hell, John and Sherlock captured and separated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: end of world. slavery
> 
> don't mind me, I'm just doing something small bits of writing, just getting some ideas out of my system

The room smelled of sweaty bodies crowded together, fear enhancing the scent so that it clogged John’s nose and made him choke on the fumes of misery about him. As a doctor, he couldn’t help but let his gaze travel over his fellow captives and catalouge their injuries. The older woman on his right had a bleeding head wound, the younger man on his left was limping as they were all herded like cattle into the large warehouse. 

John’s eyes scanned the room, trying to catch sight of a dark, curly head. He’d been herded with the regular crowd of men and women, everybody unremarkable at first glance. Some, like himself, most likely had hidden skills which would be sussed out sooner or later by their captors, but for now they were all just plain faces lumped together.

There were plenty of taller men standing near enough for John to see, but none were unique enough to be Sherlock. John continued to crane his neck around until he caught sight of another group bunched together at the other end of the room. They were all young and beautiful and otherworldly, with a few exceptions of aging examples of perfection. Like Sherlock. Who stood tall among them, if slightly wilted and weakened.

He was as undressed as everyone else, his pale skin shiny with sweat and red with stripes of blood. His hands were cuffed before him. Someone had muzzled him, though, no doubt because he couldn’t keep that great big mouth of his shut for once. His head suddenly lifted and turned in John’s direction. For a moment, their eyes met, then Sherlock’s slid away, his gaze turned glassy and unfocused. 

_Go to your mind palace_ , John mentally chanted, trying to will the thought to his friend. _Stay there, just for now._

John would find him. John would always find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and then some really bad things happen.


	17. A New Drug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Lestrade finds out where kidnapped Sherlock is being held, he is forced to act as a guinea pig to a mad scientist. Or 'Why Lestrade and Sherlock have a child together'. They are held for a few more months after the kidnapping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade/Sherlock. Alpha!Lestrade. Omega!Sherlock.
> 
> Warnings: noncon/dubcon, forced drug use

Ignoring the guns pointed at his head, Lestrade stared through the window into the other room where Sherlock writhed on a bed, flushed and sweating enough to soak the sheets beneath him.

“How...?”

Dr. Allen smirked. “I’ve developed a drug that counteracts common omega suppressants, such as the Elikra brand that Mr. Holmes here has been taking. Though we had to up the dose a bit due to his, shall we say, recreational past.”

Lestrade stared at the man in horror. Elikra was the most reliable suppressant on the market. If this man had found a way to so efficiently cancel out it’s effectiveness, that would mean a lot of vulnerable omegas unable to protect themselves from predators, be they alpha, omega, or beta.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Lestrade asked.

Dr. Allen laughed. “I’m creating science, Detective Inspector.” He held up a syringe, still smirking. “I’ve been testing a few other things, as well. You’ll make an excellent test subject.”

Two men grabbed Lestrade’s arms to hold him still. The only thing that kept him from fighting against their hold was the remaining gun aimed at his head. He gritted his teeth when the needle entered his skin and pumped an unknown substance into his veins.

“What is this?” Lestrade snapped.

He got another smug look, then Allen opened the door leading to Sherlock’s room and shoved Lestrade through. The smell hit him like a wall, the scent of an omega in full heat. He closed his eyes and took deeps breaths to gain some control, nevermind that Sherlock cried out at the sight of him or that the drugs in him system were slowly stripping him of the lock he was trying to keep on his alpha impulses.

He was an officer of the law, he had a duty to uphold, people (Sherlock) to protect...

A body pressed against him, hot and sleek, a hormonal punch to the gut. An electrical shot to the groin. Keeping his eyes closed, he reached out and gripped the omega before him in a tight lock and steered him towards the bed.


	18. Cat!lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Uni, John helped free lab animals from captivity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, John helps some activists free lab animals in the hopes of impressing a girl enough to get to sleep with her. Years later, he runs across Sherlock Holmes, one of the animals he helped free. Mycroft is one, too, and had been held captive with Sherlock in the same cage. They altered their appearance, grew up, and became who they are today.

The Dynamics Laboratory smelled like feces and wet fur and was filled with yowls of anger and fear. Most of the animals cowered in the back of their cages, various creatures of all types, from dogs and cats to snakes and mice.

John hesitated at one of the tall cages. The interior was too dark to see inside properly, but a shadow, maybe two, paced restlessly near the back, making strange, rhythmic hissing sounds at the back of its throat.

“C’mon, John.” Theda, the girl who he foolishly followed here in the hopes of getting into her pants later on. “We gotta go before the cops get here.”

As the other guys flipped the locks on the cage, John reached out to the latch in front of him. The figure from the back threw itself at the door and crouched there, staring at John with intense blue eyes. The ears on the sides of his head twitched, then folded back against his head as he let out another long hiss. He was part feline, part man-his pale, naked body gave testament to gender.

An alarm blared to life, making John jump. He grasp the lock, gave it a quick twist, then grabbed his potential girlfriend’s hand to pull her away from the screech of the animals and the blaring of the alarm. He glanced back once to see that long body slide from the cage he’d just opened, then was yanked through the back door.


	19. Interactions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2 short Mycroft interactions, post-Reichenbach, non-canon scenes

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked as he shrugged his coat on. It was a replica of his usual, which had been lost on a mission in Germany.

"You've only just returned, Sherlock. Your injuries-"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "They're minor. John can look after them once I've returned to Baker Street."

"You need _rest_ , little brother. Besides, what makes you think that Dr. Watson is waiting for you?"

"Of course, he is. Where else would he be?"

Mycroft stepped closer into Sherlock's space and gripped him tightly by the arm. "You might claim to have no heart but I've known you long enough to better. I'm trying keep it from being broken."

Sherlock's mouth tightened and his nose flared as he stared Mycroft down. "What are trying to do? Keep me from him? You known me long enough to know better."

Mycroft nodded his head, barely perceptible to anyone who wasn't Sherlock. Sherlock's brow had only just furrowed in confusion when his hand shot up to his neck. He gave Mycroft a hurt look as he began to list to the side, then slump to the floor.

"Make sure he gets to Baker Street but I want him guarded at all times until we get the situation with Dr. Watson settled."

Anthea slipped the used needle away and nodded. She pulled out her phone, already setting plans in motion.

"I'm sorry, little brother," Mycroft said to the prone figure on the floor. "It's for your own good."

 

+

The tip of Mycroft's umbrella pressed against John's throat.

"Stay down, Dr. Watson."

"Thought you didn't do legwork," John wheezed.

"Yes, I _abhor_ legwork. But I am not so unintelligent as to ignore self-preservation."


	20. mutant freaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When mutant John Watson gets invalidated out of the army, he's assigned a room at 221B. In which John can heal people with just his hands, Sherlock used to be able to fly, and the government controls anyone with mutant status.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mutant AU. The government registers all mutants and controls where they work, how they live, and (if applicable) whether they keep their powers. Mycroft, in the guise of protecting his brother, turned Sherlock in to his superiors, who 'neutered' his ability to fly by removing his wings. All mutants have to wear a patch to indicate their statuses-external/internal powers, physical mutations, mental abilities. Sherlock doesn't have to wear one because he's no longer considered a mutant. Without drugs, his black moods hit hard. Only the work helps. Irene Adler also has wings. Moriarty...telepathy, maybe? i could see him mind-raping someone. Mycroft is normal.

John stared across the small space separating him from his therapist with tired, weary eyes. She looked back at him, refusing to break the stalemate of silence. ‘Trust issues,’ he’d read off her upside down pad. What had she ever done to make him trust her? He was still limping through London from a wound that didn’t exist, stuck in a dull bedsit, in a dull routine.

Their silence was broken by the soft chime of Ella’s phone marking the end of the hour. She uncrossed her legs and shifted to put away her paperwork. He glimpsed those two hateful words once more before they were put away into her briefcase.

“We’ll take off from here next week. Please think about what we talked about.”

John grabbed his coat, his cane, and headed for the door. He didn’t bother with goodbyes. 

Not for the first time, he wondered why the government insisted he keep these appointments. It wasn’t as if any of them would wind up at whatever out of the way clinic he’d eventually be thrown into. He was too damaged now to be of any real use to them.

As he walked along, he slowly began to notice a black car gliding sleekly beside him, its engine near silent amongst the rest of traffic. It stopped when he did and an attractive brunette stepped out. The patch on the blazer of her business suit indicated an ‘external mechanical’ mutation.

“Dr. Watson.”

“Yes. Hi. I mean-that’s me.”

She gave him a cool smile. “Please get in the car.”

Well, that was abrupt. “No, thanks. My place isn’t too far. Got my cane.” 

Her smile never wavered. “I wasn’t making a request.”

A tall, beefy man in sunglasses stepped from the passenger side of the car and onto the pavement beside the woman. John gave him an assessing once-over.

“So,” he said after sliding into the passenger seat. “What’s your name?”

“Anthea.”

“Oh...that’s not your real name, is it?”

“No.” ‘Anthea’ never looked up from her phone. Information flowed across the screen, constantly changing, yet her fingers never touched its smooth surface. They rolled along for what seemed like eternity, but was probably only about five minutes, in total silence-kind of like his therapy session. Even felt just as tense.

Finally, they stopped. Both Anthea and what John assumed was her bodyguard stepped out of the car. A building loomed over them, with governmental titles plastered over the front. 

“So what’s this, then?”

Anthea started walking. The guard took John by the elbow. He briefly thought about taking the guy to the ground in a display of testosterone manliness but decided against it. He didn’t want to waste energy healing whatever damage the fight might cause.

The lobby was small. A small desk sat to the left of the door. A mousy looking woman sat behind the desk, but didn’t even blink as Anthea, John, and the guard marched by. The three of them passed through identical winding corridors until John was sure he’d never find his way out again.

They stopped in front of an unmarked door. There should have been more fanfare, maybe some confetti once he stepped over the threshold. Instead, there was silence and another desk, this time manned by another large man, obviously armed like his compatriot shadowing the doctor. Unlike the woman in the lobby, he actually stood when they entered. Anthea merely looked at him, though, and the man sank back into his seat, though he gave John a steely look of someone used to battle. John knew that look well. He seen it on the battlefield, in the moments between fear and anger-and in the moments between life and death spilled out on hot, desert sands.


	21. John and Sherlock are dance teachers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John used to be a professional ballroom dancer but a knee injury took him out of the game. Now he teaches at a small dance school run by Mrs. Hudson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Shall We Dance? Or Shall We Dansu? The Geer/Lopez version is one of the few American remakes of Japanese movies that I really like, The Ring being another. I also think it would be interesting to explore Sherlock's drug use and eating habits as a result of being a former ballet dancer. The things I'd love to write if my attention span hadn't dropped like a stone these past few years. I'm lucky I can get 100 words out nowadays. Anyway...
> 
> Semi-warning: Drug use and eating disorder not mentioned here but would be a part of Sherlock's past and current struggle if I were able to write this story out.
> 
> Hmm. John would probably fit the Geer role really well here, as his upcoming wedding would give him an excuse to take dancing lesson but we're just going to make him a teacher here.

John had to take the train into the heart of London from his bedsit on the outskirts of town. The little dance studio he'd signed on to teach at was almost impossible to find, tucked above a little shop on Baker Street. Only a small sign posted on the window gave any indication there was a business there. John walked past it three times before he noticed shadowy figures moving in the window.

After a quick check-in with a man at the Speedy's counter to be sure, he finally mounted the stairs and climbed to the top. He could hear music coming from the other side of the door. He opened the door and peeked in. The main lobby was merely a desk sitting by the door. The rest of the room was the dance floor, though he could see two other rooms separated by clear glass. Inside, a tall man was teaching a woman how to waltz, moving her hands into the correct position. And if one of her hands drifted a bit downwards, he didn't seem to notice or care, just soldiered on.

"Um, hi." The woman on the dance floor, who was guiding a small group of men through some basic footwork, broke away and approached. "I'm sorry, the class is already underway. Would you like to make an appointment for another day?"

"No, sorry, I'm John. John Watson?"

The woman's face brightened. "Watson! Yes, I'm sorry-oh!" She held out her hand. "My name's Molly Hooper. I'm one of the instructors here. If you'll wait a minute, I'll get Mrs. Hudson from the back."

"Ta." John took a seat on the bench against the wall and waited while Molly introduced the students through a new move. Once they'd gotten the hang of it, she paired them off together and disappeared into the empty side room, then through another door past it. John glanced back at the other room. The couple inside were still dancing. The woman would make a passable dancer in more social settings but the man she was with moved with a surety and skill that spoke of a professional. Not ballroom, like John. He looked too proper for something more modern or interpretative. 

The clack of heels on the wood floor brought John's attention back to the dance floor where Molly and Mrs. Hudson, who he'd already met a week ago for the job interview, were headed towards him.

"John." Mrs. Hudson enveloped him in a hug. "It's so good to see you. Did you get here alright? Here, I'll make some tea. Just the once, though."

"No, no. I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson."

The door to the side room opened and the couple stepped out. The taller man's eyes swept over John as the woman said her goodbyes.


End file.
